"You are indeed family. No other could have lived to oppose me in person. Of course it will not matter in the end. Ultimately I will prevail, and a new era will be born unto the realms."

"Face ME! FACE THE NEW LORD OF MURDER!"

"You remind me of myself...before I was slaughtered and cast into the Abyss."

"Death comes for you! Feel its icy breath!"

"Ah, yes. Stoke that infernal wrath of yours. I can feel the anger within you, boiling like a pit of sulphur in the crevices of your heart. You feel it, do you not? The taint that surrounds your soul like a serpent, squeezing it, spreading its venom... that taint, that wrath exists in all of the children of Bhaal, but few know how to use it."

"I can teach you how to use your wrath. You can control the taint, direct it, summon it at will. You can become the Slayer at will and become the weapon of murder that you were meant to be! So think of me. Think of how I destroyed your precious Gorion, how I plundered the lives of your Candlekeep. Summon your rage, stir the depths of your black heart! Summon wrath. Summon wrath and become it, for if you cannot, then you are not worthy of Bhaal's blood. It should have been I. It should have been I! ATTACK ME, WORM, IF YOU DARE!!!"

Davaeorn: So the stoic adventurers have found their way down to my lair.

Davaeorn: Why have you come? Is it to steal my riches? - or perhaps you seek to righteously punish me for my affront to your morality. It matters little, for you will do neither. Before I dispose of you in some horribly gruesome manner perhaps I should introduce myself. I am known as Davaeorn; I would ask you for your names but I care little to become acquainted with the dead.

Gorion: Listen carefully. If we should ever become separated, it is imperative that you make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn. There, you will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them.

Ike: There's a sucker born every minute... and you are right on time.

Jaheira: You are amusing, in a "what the hell is wrong with you" kind of way.

Jaheira: If a tree falls in a forest... I'll kill the bastard what done it!

Nobleman: I thank you for not stealing the pantaloons, and I will thank you kindly not to mention the stuffing in the codpiece.

Nobleman: Away with you beggar . . . .

Noober: Everyone in town used to throw rocks at me and tell me I was annoying. I once knew this guy named Dilby. He threw rocks at me too. Are you gonna throw rocks at me? What about now?

Noober: What about now?

Portalbendarwinden: Ehhh... insights? Um... Never take raisins from rabbits, never spit in a man's face unless his moustache is on fire, and don't take any wooden knickers unless you've a good supply of salve.

Priest Of Oghma: These walls contain the world's knowledge.

Priest of Oghma: Wisdom is only possessed by the learned.

Quayle: I am so smart! S-M-R-T... I mean S-M-A-R-T.

Quayle: Feel my amazing brain. Go on, touch it!

Skie: I have a cold...

Taerom "Thunderhammer" Fuiruim: I can make whatever you wish for a wee little bit more than me competition.

Tenya: Stop! You are tresspassing on my land-home!

The Great Gazib: Hi, come well and welcome! You have stumbled upon The Great Gazib Show, starring yours truly, the Great Gazib!!! Allow me to introduce the Amazing Oopah, the world's only exploding ogre!

The Great Gazib: You're either a die-hard fan or a sadist, friend... (No, Oopah, just one more, one last one, then you can go back to the tent... Oopah, put the weapon down -- Oopah?) AA-a-ieee! (Oopah appears and attacks the party)

Viconia: Surface-dwellers can be so stupid.

Viconia: There is no roof to this world.

Viconia: Male, fetch me something to eat!

Well-Adjusted Al: Hi, I'm Well-Adjusted Al, and my prices are sensible. I used to be called Crazy Al, but therapy has convinced me that selling plate armour for 3 gold pieces and a small duck was no way to get ahead in business.

Winthrop: My old tavern's as clean as an Elven arse!

Andarsson: There are two reasons I pound this pick against these rocks. Do you wish to hear them?

Protagonist: Yes. I would.

Andarsson: First because I imagine this rock to be my captor's skull. Second, because the meager spark that leaps from my attempt is all the light I'll ever know again. If you be a new slave like I once was, you shall learn these simple truths soon enough.

Drasus: Draw your daggers and spells and let's have at 'er! You've crossed our employers and this is as far as you're going to go, my friend. Should've known that lazy bounty hunting rabble wouldn't get the job done. Never settle for second best, I always say!

Protagonist: You want to know what I always say? "Always kill the mouthy one," that's what I always say.

Drasus: HAW! A good saying! I will use your head for a puppet and make it say it over and over while we drink large amounts of mead! Life is pretty good, you know?

Emissary Tar: At last, someone who looks like they could be of some assistance! The assorted boobs and dimwits around here have been of very little help.

Protagonist: I'm afraid you have mistaken us for someone else. I'm Dimwit, this is my good friend Boob, and behind me you'll find Brainless and Moron. How do you do?

Gorion: Let's hurry child! The night can only get worse so we must find shelter soon. Don't worry, I will explain everything as soon as there is time. Wait! There is something wrong. We are in an ambush. Prepare yourself!

Sarevok: You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life.

Gorion: You're a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt.

Sarevok: I'm sorry that you feel that way old man.

Gorion: Run, child, get out of here!

Guard: Halt! Where do you think you're going?

Protagonist: Upstairs. Where do YOU think you're going?

Guard: The entrance tax is 6 gold pieces for each party of travellers. Please announce your point of origin.

Protagonist: The mystical land of frolicking naked nymphs, where your every desire is granted by bald blubbering bugbears. Hee! Hee!

Kryla: Oh, please help me! They kill poor Jondal!

Protagonist: If this Jondal is dead, then he is weak and should never have been born.

Larze: Huurm, I be Larze. You be Protagonist. Don't try to deny it. You should not have come to Baldur's Gate. You given many warnings before, but you ignore them. Now you must pay. Sorry, but Larze must kill.

Protagonist: Wait one moment you big oaf. Why would you think that I'm Protagonist? Do I look like I could be that kind of hero? Protagonist is a juggernaut of destruction, with flaming eyes, and a roaring voice. My companions and I, we're just normal folks.

Larze: Huh? But you must be Protagonist. Me see picture, and it look like you. It had no fire eyes or big voice, though pictures don't have voices. Hmmmmm. I confused.

Protagonist: Larze, my poor confused ogre. There is only one thing for you to do. You have to go back and take a closer look at the picture. I'm sure once you've had a second look, you'll know what a big mistake you've made. Now run along, we'll be waiting right here.

Larze: Yes! Good idea. Larze will find picture and see for sure. You will wait here until Larze gets back.

Maple Willow Aspen: WHAT?! You were going to ask about my name, weren't you? Everyone wants to know about it, and you're probably no different! Well fine! Maple Willow Aspen IS my name and YES my parents were VERY fond of TREES! I am VERY aware of it, and NO don't want to hear ANY jokes about family trees and me being the SAP! Are you HAPPY NOW?!

Protagonist: Actually, I was just interested in directions.

Maple Willow Aspen: DIRECT...um...d-d-irections? You mean you don't...well then, *cough* What can I help you with?

Marl: Oh you think it's funny do you?! You mess up the local economy with your treasure, you upset the balance of nature, you flash your magic around, and because of it maybe somebody's son thinks it's fun and goes out and gets himself killed! It's a bad example and somebody ought to kick your ass for it!

Protagonist: Don't get mad at me if "somebody's son" couldn't handle being out from under mom's skirt! Should've taught him to fight instead of dirt-farming!

I fear I have taken one too many blows to the head! Next I'll be hearing hamsters speak!

A-a-a-ah!!! Unholy magics are afoot! This chicken is possessed! This bird is FOUL!!!

Protagonist: What makes you think you are going to rule everything? That's a pretty big job for such a... diminutive fellow.

Tiax: Have ye no ears to hear?! It is as Tiax said! DESTINY! Cyric himself will lift Tiax "on-high," hurtling me to my rightful place when the time comes! You shall all be as ants before my grace, though slightly larger ants than the norm if you help me.

Protagonist: So your whole belief system centers around some celestial midget-toss? Count me out. I'm not a member of the 'Up With Dwarves League,' you know!

Khalid: I don't want to seem c-confrontational, but could you be a little less... well... evil?

Montaron: Ye live longer if ye don't annoy me. Mayhaps even a week or more.

Guard: You wouldn't kill a man with a wife and ten children, would you?

Protagonist: No way, you've got a fate worse than death already.

Winthrop: Aye, now there's the rapscallion! Set on the little wisp, now, and make every bolt count!

Protagonist: Winthrop, you old fool! If I had an arrow for every one of these practical jokes you've played on me, I'd... I'd... I don't know, I'd have a lot of arrows! Well met, my friend.

Winthrop: Yes, ye'd run me right out of the fletching business in a flash, ye would! It's good to see your impish face again! Now fill me in on what it is ye've been doing lately.

Protagonist: I've been adventuring, Winthrop. There's a world out there and it needs a righteous old kick in the arse every now and again, doesn't it?

Winthrop: Spoken with the wisdom of a true fool! By the gods, I love this bastard child!

In certain circumstances, the best defense is a good offence - Elminster

A sharp pen is sometimes better than a sword, I've found - Volo

p 18 under "Items Proterty Page" (about write magic e.g.)

Many a mage has wasted their life seeking scrolls with spells to add to their collection. - Volo

Do not underrestimate the advantages of increasing one's knowledge - Elminster

p 18 under "Rest"

Watch out for surprise attacks where you rest, friend - Volo

P 20 under "Miscellaneous Information" (about fatigue)

A 'haste' spell makes you fatigued... all that running around can't be good for you. - Volo

Ah, but improved haste won't have this effect. - Elminster

p 26 under "Volo's personal introduction"

This guidebook is one of the very finest in my ongoing tour of the Realms - I can garantee that you'll find no more diligent guide than your humble servant Volothamp Geddarm. I've spent the past six months journeying around the lands of Amn, suffering trials and tribulation the like of which you can only imagine! Lumpy mattresses, rude serving wenches and thin, tasteless ale - such is the price I willingly pay to bring forth this fountain of knowledge. Forever in thy service, - Volothamp Geddarm

A notorious embellisher and braggart, Volo's guide is remarkably accurate - for him. Perhaps this reflects the influence of an unnamed, wiser eye looking over Volo's shoulders. - Elminster

Aerie: When I was first enslaved, I was kept in a small cage and put on display. I had no room to stand, buch less stretch my wings. I...I tried to warn my captor, I pleaded to him...

Aerie: ...but my wings withered and became bloody and diseased. Until, finally, he was forced to...to...saw them off. It was...it was so painful and horrid!

Aerie: I've felt like a great part of me has been missing ever since. I am incomplete. I...do not feel beautiful, <Name>. Not anymore.

Protagonist: You placed too much of yourself in your wings, Aerie. You have to look at the rest of yourself and find beauty in that, too.

Aerie: It is...very hard for me. But I shall try to think as you say...and I thank you for your kinds words.

Aerie: You seem to be limping, Jan. Have you been hurt recently?

Jan: No, lass, I’m not hurt and the limp is not new. I’ve had it as long as you’ve known me. 'Tis a wooden leg you see. I was smuggling crackers into Waterdeep several years back. The Council had outlawed them due to near constant cracker-related debauchery, you see... I couldn’t let THAT pass. The Council had sealed off all ports and mobilized the army to stop all cracker entry. The city was shut down, martial law was declared and people huddled in their homes for fear and want of crackers. I could not stand idly by while such persecution was visited on the somewhat innocent peoples of Waterdeep. So I smuggled crackers. Salted, unsalted, and herb-riddled alike, it mattered not. All came in and all were consumed in secret orgies of cracker-related tomfoolery. Then came the unpleasant business with the hanging. I hadn’t seen Picklefeather’s eyes bulge like that since that Wyvern kicked him in the ba... (Oops! Innocent elvish lass, have to watch the tongue) uh... in the arm. (Yes, that will do.) The moral of the story is, you reap what you sow. I still own a warehouse full of saltines. I send a box each year to all my friends. Seem to have fewer friends each year as a result, but that's to be expected.

Aerie: What does that have to do with your wooden leg?

Jan: What wooden leg? I have no wooden leg.

Aerie: Grrrr! You’re IMPOSSIBLE!

Jan: Why yes, I suppose I am, at that. (grin)

Aerie: I have a question for you, Imoen... you have the taint of Bhaal within you? Does this mean you will turn into the Slayer as well?

Imoen: I certainly hope not. I... I've been thinking more and more lately about that, myself, though.

Aerie: It must be an awful feeling. I cannot imagine how <Protagonist> deals with it.

Imoen: Yeah... s/he's been dealing with it longer, too. Sometimes, when it's quiet... I can hear the taint in my heart whispering to me. It says awful things and I almost want to scream to shut them out.

[About Isaea Roenall] I am sorry for that extended exchange but he is such a bounder, such a... a manipulating... such a.. Oh, to Hades with the manners, he is a complete bastard, and calling him that insults bastards everywhere!

Nalia: [after the Protagonist gives a beggar gold] That was a nice thing to do. Although I'm sure you could spare a lot more...what are you saving up for? A golden sword?

Jan: Now, now, Nalia. A golden sword wouldn't be so bad...except maybe for the weight. And the softness. Pretty much only good for one swing, actually. Hmmm...tell me, just why are you planning on buying a golden sword, anyway? Sounds pretty useless to me.

Protagonist: I never said I was going to--

Jan: Oh, don't go and tell me you don't want one. I've heard you mumbling in your sleep, you chatty little man. But never mind...I'd like to see you try and fight with one.

Greetings. I am Edwin Odesseiron. You simians may refer to me merely as "Sir," if you prefer a less... syllable-intensive workout.

Edwin do this, EDWIN DO THAT... somebody get this jerk a banana.

Tedious monkey work.

Well, it would seem the leader of our little group has impregnated the impressionable circus child. And here I thought she was merely getting chubby without the ring master's whip to keep her in shape.

I'm busy, okay? I'm BUSY.

(Annoyed tone) O, YES, MASTER. What shall I FETCH NOW?!

Have you nothing else to do but bother me?!

Go bother someone else!

(Grumbling) One day... one day...

[in Hell] Eh? The Nine Hells, is it? Hmph. I felt your infernal power tugging at me, but I was coming here anyway. There might be profit, yet, by remaining at your side... We'll see.

[upon final battle in Hell] Power is on our side, sorcerer! You cannot hope to defeat us in this final reckoning! Your end is near at hand, wail if you must!!

(Leaving the party in the Pocket Plane) Well certainly! There is soo much to keep a great magus such as myself busy here! Look! A rock! How fascinating!

[when faced with two options by Kiser Jhaeri] Out of professional courtesy I must insist we slay the Countess rather than my fellow mage. (Although killing the wizard could lead to the acquisition of several powerful magic items...)

Could my opinion of this group drop any lower? Evidently so.

[when the protagonist accepts a quest to investigate fallen paladins] Excellent! An open invitation to fling spells at paladins, former or not! (With luck, I can convince <Name> to let me play with one!)

When the Protagonist is asking for advise from the party about the decision to achieve godhood or reject it.

What? Why are you looking at me? Take the power, already. Isn't that what you came here for? (I didn't follow this insufferable monkey around to see all its divinity lost! What would I get out of that?!)

Peasant: I 'eard they found someone usin' foul magic down here. Arrested 'im, they did. Good riddance.

Edwin: Yes, indeed. Speak once more against those with enough intelligence to grind you into salt and I'll instill a bit more respect in you, fool.

Viconia: Flattery will serve you no purpose, male. I will tell *you* when you may speak to me thus.

Edwin: I believe, Viconia, that I have gained a greater respect for your... ah... intensity through the course of our journeys.

Viconia: And I, Edwin, have grown no more appreciative of the sound of your voice since the day I first encountered its nasal whine.

Edwin: eh...

Viconia: Walk away, Edwin, I am in no mood for you.

Edwin: Out with it, gnome! I see that you are fabricating another of your fanciful lies as you look at me!

Jan: Oh, don't get all huffy. It's just that, at this angle you look a lot like my Uncle Ager of the Tomes.

Edwin: Ah, and I suppose he had a comical disfigurement, or his mind fell a few coppers short of a silver, or that his tremendous odor kept the stars afloat, or some other thinly disguised failing told ONLY to demean me in the eyes of others!

Jan: Eh, no, he was a mage. Tell me, Edwin, are you having trouble at home?

I shouldn't wish to alarm anyone, but I just wanted to point out that Jan has failed to produce a story. Can the apocalypse be far?

Readier than a red-cheeked maiden, my friend!

I do not care o'ermuch for being prodded all the time...

Wouldn't you rather a tune? A sonnet, some grand melody? Fine, have it your way, my raven!

Ravens, ravens, drunk on freedom, do you not realise that there still be business to which we must attend? Quick, let us bring Mekrath's pretty jewel back to my playhouse where it might be more appreciated.

Ah... the role of the lowly supplicant. I know this path well, my raven. We much play the eager servants to these black-hearted elven folk, and step to their tune most lively. The alternative is to suffer their suspicious eyes and magics... and we know not what eyes already follow us. Best we do exactly as we are told, lest we be revealed, aye?

(before entering the Underdark and the Harper Stronghold) 'And the door stands agape, suddenly, and with great trepidation our heroes step into the dark interior of a lion's den'...

There's no resisting the muse of an artist, is there? By his tone, it seems all we can do is to travel to yon Promenade and find this... 'illithium', or whatever he named. Come, my raven, it could be a lark.

At last... Oblivion... (dies)

(When Edwin has failed to use a nether scroll) I once knew a Red Mage of Thay, Who dreamed of lichdoom some day. He said he knew how to do it, but he still managed to screw it, up in the funniest way.

There goes a truly evil man. Uncle Scratchy looks like a saint compared to him.

You know, this reminds me of that time, wa-a-a-ay back...

I'll do it, for a turnip.

[on a critical hit] Take that, turnip-hatin' scum!

Beware! Your knees are mine!

(burps) Pardon, turnip reflex.

I can't! I'm allergic! Well, all right, I'm not that allergic...

I think we make a fine partnership, like Drizzt and Wulfgar! Elminster and Volo! Heh, we should go into the mobile vegetable peddling business together!

Well, there's a lesson in there somewhere, I suppose. Never whip a sick ogre? Never tell someone twice your size to pick something up? Never boss someone around unless you can run faster than they can? Aha! If you're going to hire ogres, give them sick days and benefits or they will kill you. Yes... that about sums it up, I think.

Whooo... all this talk of Umar brings back memories, let me tell you! My great-great-cousin One-Knee was one of the adventurers that hunted the Great Witch of the Hills a long time ago. Said she had a fondness for little children and that her house was made out of chocolate candy, of all things. Personally, a house made of turnips sounds much more appealing, but One-Knee stated decisively that the house was delicious, nevertheless. According to his stories, the witch was dead... something about getting shoved in an oven... but then Grammy Jansen said that One-Knee was pretty delusional, so who knows?

[in Hell] Whoa! This place looks just like... it reminds me of.. this is just like that time I... hm. I don't think anything like this has ever happened to me before...

[before the final battle] Some villains refuse to die. Kill 'em once, kill 'em twice, they just keep coming back. It's just like a bad play. Here's hoping for a decent ending...

[after being resurrected with Keldorn in the party] Greetings, everyone. Sorry, no gifts or souvenirs this time but I'll keep you all in mind the next time I'm gone. Oh, Keldorn: the gods say 'hi' and that you should wash your underwear more thoroughly. Everyone ready? Let's go adventuring.

Oh, yes indeed. It reminds me of my Cousin, Tyllie Fleetknees, and the garden she had at the foot of a dryad tree in the Forest of Wyrms. I tell you, she went up expecting well-aerated soil and did she get a surprise? Oh yes indeed! Why, I remember it like it was burned into my memory with a flaming stick, which was very close to the truth actually...

Well, there goes the wizard with a body in tow. Not the sort of thing you see every day unless you happen to be living with a necromancer. I did, once, when I was working for Golodon. He used to come into the tower every second day with a body over his shoulder. I would look at him all suspicious-like and ask him where he found it, and he would just shrug and say vaguely, "oh... around". It took me a while, but eventually I decided Golodon wasn't being entirely above-board with me on the body issue. Since then, I've never trusted a wizard with more arms and legs than he was born with... unless he's been polymorphed, of course, but even then it's usually wisest to keep your distance.

[after sunset] I've had this little problem ever since I was a wee gnome. When it gets dark, everybody glows red. Frightens a child something fierce...

Random Kid: You're a gnome, aren't you? My momma says that gnomes are good for nothing other than decorating the grounds.

Jan: Actually, young one, I have an Uncle Witherjar who decorates grounds professionally. He has become known all across his hometown as the Garden Gnome, and I understand he makes quite the fair living at it. I don't know if I would like to work all those hours during the day, as Uncle Witherjar does, so I think I would have to turn down your mother's suggestion. I could always refer her to my Uncle, I suppose, although it is such a far way. He wants to spread his work amongst all the gnomes, but I don't think he's made much headway, yet. If your mother would rather decorate her kitchen, I suppose I could give it a whirl even if I haven't got the Witherjar touch.

Kid: Huh?

When the Protagonist is asking for advise from the party about the decision to achieve godhood or reject it.

Jan: Well, you know, it's funny that this situation should come up. It's not something that I like to think about much, but I spent a whole year as a god back in '03. Oh, I know what you're thinking... why only a year? It's a touching and involved tale, but I'm happy to shed some light on it if it helps with your predicament.

Protagonist: This I've got to hear.

Jan: It's nice to hear you eager, for once. It's not every day that a gnome finds himself in the middle of the Abyss fighting an avatar and talking to a solar, you know. I haven't done that for at least a year, now... although to be honest, the last time was only in the company of Aunt Patty and we all know what a puchover her Larry was... and it's nice to see that my tribulations in this party are recognized.

Jan: Anyway, it was during the Time of Troubles that I'd run afoul of some Banite cultists who accidentally mistook me for Bane's earthly avatar. Don't ask. Maybe they didn't have a picture I wasn't sure what to think, myself, and resolved to spend more attention towards my breath in the future. It wasn't long before I was worshipped by thousands on a regular basis. They made good stew and the constant chanting wasn't unpleasant, so I decided to play along. No one grows turnips under threat of eternal torment quite as well as a Dreadmaster, and I'll stand by that statement to this day.

Jan: Well, it wasn't long before the whole Time of Troubles thing was over and suddenly little old worshipped me found myself up in the heavenes before the Overfather, Himself. Seems they were short of death gods at the time, and it didn't seem like such a big gig, so I took him up on his offer. Plus, the dental plan was extraordinary.

Jan: Being a god isn't what you'd expect, though, Sune was all over me from day one...I hear she developed a thing for turnips about a decade ago. She just wouldn't leave me along! There were parties at all hours of the night. Lliira would get plastereed and fall into the tiny pond and eventually Torm would start a brawl with somebody. Did you know what it's like to have Helm pounding on your door at three in the morning? I could never get any sleep at all. If it wasn't one thing it was getting slapped by Umberlee or hit on by Loviatar. All night long...and in the morning, all the gods would be in a foul mood. Terrible.

I couldn't find anything good about the experience at all. No wonder Ao kicked them all out. He probably had to catch up on his housekeeping, of all things. Well, after all of that I was more than happy to let Cyric have the job, eager puppy that he was. Left it behind me for a turnip farm and a nice pension, and gladly...although I eventually traded the pension for some stock in a spelljammer trading cruiser, which was a bad decision but all us mortals arn't immune to that, of course. Lost the farm, too, in a game of checkers to Uncle Fibbert. But that turned out all right, as the turnips got a bad root that year and Uncle Fubbert died of too much intestinal gas. Poor man.

Jan: Anyhow, I hope all my experience has been of some help. Ummm... feel free to accept others opinions. Ummm... no need to stare, now. Move on, move on.

Jan: Korgy old pal, have I ever told you how much you remind me of my uncle, Uriah Twin-Hammers?

Korgan: Watch yer step, gnome. If ye make me angry, I’ll bury the head of me axe so far up yer backside yer breath will smell like magic metal!

Jan: That’s exactly the kind of thing Twin-Hammers would say. He was a ruthless, savage, bloodthirsty outlaw who would kill anyone or anything that got in his way. He used to repeatedly terrorize a certain gnomish village he frequently wandered through in his neverending quest for profit and bloodshed.

Jan: Of course, all good things come to an end. Fed up with Uriah’s antics, the village hired a hero to protect them and enforce the law - the legendary Clint Hackman (so named for his habit of chopping his foes to little bits). With the townsfolk peering from their windows the outlaw and the famous lawman stared each other down in the center of the dusty, deserted street. Cold as ice, Uriah said: ‘I’ve killed women and children. I’ve killed everything that walks or crawls on this earth. And now I’m here to kill you.’ Alas, Uriah met his end on that street. With his first blow he broke his hammer on Hackman’s shield, and that was it. Weaponless, he wasn’t much of a match for the mighty Clint. If my uncle had only been named Two-Hammer because he carried two weapons he still might be alive today. But Uriah got his nickname for the mighty hammer he carried in his belt and the even mightier ... uh, ‘hammer’ he had *beneath* his belt, if you get my drift. A fine instrument to have, but not much good in a fight.

Jan: It was Oghma, the god of knowledge. Although I can’t say I really met him. I suppose, as he was drunk, and fast asleep in cousin Roffer’s back lawn. Or perhaps I should say On cousin Roffer’s back lawn… he was a giant of an avatar, sprawled out and snoring. I wonder how you get a god drunk?

Protagonist: I truly doubt that happened, Jan.

Jan: But it’s true! Someone had drawn a moustache on him and yanked his underwear clear up to his shoulderblades. No idea who, but all I can think is that it must have been one hell of a party. But if you won’t believe me… well, as much as it hurts poor old Jan I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it. (sniff) Poor Jan Jansen, he’s such a liar. (boo hoo!)

Jan: Minsc! Look out behind you!

Minsc: Where? He who sneaks on Minsc loses teeth!

Jan: C'mon Boo! Quickly, come to Jan!

Minsc: Stop it! Boo is not for you, tiny! You'll hurt him!

Jan: He likes me. Gnomes are far cuddlier than oafish humans.

Minsc: No, I know what is best when talking of Boo. If you could hear his wishes, you would agree, but you cannot. The words of Boo are for Minsc alone.

Jan: You can't fault a fellow for trying.

Minsc: I can and will. And another thing; no more sneaking Boo crackers! He is getting rather portly, and the crumbs make for an itchy bedroll.

Jan: Only death will cure this itch. I shall not live out this day. Oh, terrible powers of the heavens! Why will you let me die without granting me a final wish? Cruel, cruel fate!

Minsc: What can Minsc do to help? A tragedy, this is! I will slay those that need slaying!

Jan: I do have one final wish...no, no. I do not wish to burden my companions with my death. My teensy-weensy wish is unimportant. Travel on, good Minsc. Carry the torch and so forth.

Minsc: It is only fair, big-nosed little one. We will do all that we can to aid you.

Jan: Truly, it is a small thing. As a child I had a pet hamster, named Spanky. Those were the only pure days in my life. Every day was perfection. Oh, the pain! If I could just hold a hamster while I die, perhaps I could capture the innocence of my youth and die a happy gnome.

Minsc: You will not steal Boo from me! I know your tricks!

Jan: Tis no trick, (cough, cough). Nevertheless, you are correct about one thing, my oafish friend. I do not deserve happiness. Please, leave me to my excruciatingly painful death. I am close now... Spanky I miss you!

Minsc: Boo shall comfort the little dying gnome for a moment. Only a moment!

Jan: Ah, thank you, Minsc. May I have a moment alone?

Minsc: Alone? No, I draw the line... hey! Stand still! I warn you!

Jan: At last Boo is mine! I cannot believe this stupid trick worked. Come, noble hamster, a life of frivolity awaits.

Minsc: I'll throttle with your own arms if you do not return him this instant! This is no longer amusing! It was never amusing! I am not laughing!

Jan: Alright, alright. It was only a jest, Minscy. I meant no harm.

Minsc: That's right, you apologize! It's hard enough keeping Boo's roaming in check without you stealing him. Bad Jan! There will be a booting if this happens again!

Jan: So Viconia, I suppose you must be a drow, eh?

Viconia: Speak not to your betters, surface slave.

Jan: My brother, Elgar Buttercup, had skin the shade of charcoal, too. Well, technically it WAS charcoal. He died in a nasty fire, you see.

Viconia: You do love the sound of your own voice, don't you gnome?

Jan: My own voice? Heartless wench! Do you not know? I am deaf. I have never heard the sound of my own voice. I read lips... (sob)... only lips...

Viconia: Deaf? Truly? In the Underdark the deaf are killed or used in pain threshold experiments.

Jan: I heard that! In fact, it reminds me of the time I was eaten by an avatar of Lolth. I was stuck inside her stomach with a miserable drow called Biffle Chump for days. Of course, I was forced to eat him. A matter of survival, you understand. Nothing personal. He tasted a bit like chicken.

Viconia: [to Protagonist] How is it that you travel with such a wee buffoon?

Protagonist: Truthfully, it all goes back to the time that Jan's cousin, Plooty Paladin-piper, got caught in a nasty flesh golem eating contest...

Jan: Aye, Plooty had a way of attracting golems. Brilliant, really. You start with a saucer of milk - golems are suckers for milk...

Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.

Jan: You know, Binky, I have been considering this plan of yours that you had with the Iron Throne and all that. Interesting ideas... but flawed.

Sarevok: Binky? You had best not be addressing me, gnome.

Jan: For instance, whose idea was it to put impurities in the iron? Sounds like the lame idea of some yes-man underling who didn't know when to quit. No doubt you had him flogged.

Sarevok: I will not have my past commented upon by the likes of you, churl. Quiet yourself, lest that you experience more than mere flogging.

Jan: Speaking of a good flog, I'm brought to mind of poor Auntie Sara. She, too, had a master plan to take over the Sword Coast, you know. Although hers was considerably less dramatic and involved the use of some tasty recipes for a turnip pie and some mind-altering herbs that Auntie Sara had bought from a rather disreputable Turmish mage.

Sarevok: Are you listening of *nothing* I say?! Desist or suffer the consequences!

Jan: Do you think she would listen to us? You can trust a Turmish mage about as far as you can kick him... and even then it's not a bad idea to carry a good thumping stick. But, alas, Auntie Sara just cackled in her most villain-like way and was determined to carry on with her plan to hypnotize the Sword Coast. Alas, she was compeletely undone by an over-the-top exposition she gave to a spy she had captured... and who subsequently escaped, of course, before she could have him killed. It's what villains do, I understand, when they're not busy defiling iron.

Sarevok: I will not be mocked, gnome! This is your last warning!

Jan: Of course, they say that Duke Eltan had already had a bit of Auntie's pie and enjoyed it immensely. Rather than becoming hypnotized, he just became rather pleasantly obsessed with silken undergarments. This, of course, led to the first Great Underwear Shortage. It's also known as the Three-Year Wedgie Drought, but that's another story completely.

Sarevok: AUUUUGHHH!! How maddening! How can you put up with such impudence, <Protagonist>?!

Jan: Ah, the smell of adventure is nigh! Or is that ale spilled on the floor? You know, come to think of it, there's not too much difference between the two. One usually follows the other, if you take my meaning. Unless you happen to be Uncle Prebar, who took a milk bath both before and after an adventure. Ahhhhh, poor Uncle Prebar. If it weren't for those baths, he might still be with us.

Nalia: I almost hate to ask this... what, exactly, is wrong with milk baths?

Jan: Well, nothing... unless you happen to be attempting to sneak through a dungeon filled with hobgoblins and you have a few dozen cats noisily following the smell of sour milk and meowing all the time. Tsk. Well, at least the smell prevented them from eating him. The hobgoblins, I mean, not the cats.

Jan: Well, mageling, how goes the battle against all that is right and good in this world?

Edwin: (It would surely go better without annoying gnomes asking questions) Question not my designs, else you, too, will become an unwilling part of them.

Jan: I sometimes believe that it is my destiny to become part of some incompetant mages fizzled schemes. Golodon the Unmanned being a case in point. You, too, I suppose.

Edwin: I am to be continually plagued by fools? Conversation with you does not rate highly on my list of things to accomplish. Run along, now. (Yes, that will do.)

Jan: Truth be told, I feel a bit sorry for you. It must be frustrating to see your entire life's goals amount to absolutely nothing.

Edwin: What do you know of my goals, gnome?

Jan: If you say so. Let me know when it's time to bow. I might not notice it.

Jan: That is the thing. Perhaps I have moved you on occasion, but any fleeting glimmer of a smile is gone before it properly lights the room.

Jaheira: Well, have you a relative that might remedy the situation?

Jan: Eh, perhaps illustating the horror of unappreciated storytelling? Well. I had an Uncle Richard that tried to bring nude theater to a festival in Waterdeep...

Jan: Exposure is usually good for an actor's career, but even so, a cold reception for the play caused the cast to shrink steadily. Blackballed, my uncle tried to recruit from the thieves' guild, but they wouldn't let their nick-ers go.

Jan: 'Just bare with me,' he would say, but they were afraid of being stripped of their dignity. He gave up the lead to attract new members, and eventually the production's genius was uncovered, even with his part left out.

Typical. If I had a sense of humor left I might find that funny. I do not, on both accounts.

Ahhh, the child of Bhaal has awoken. It is time for more...'experiments'... The pain will only be passing; you should survive the process...

You dare to attack me here? Do you even KNOW whom you face? You will suffer! You will ALL suffer!

You know nothing of me! You know nothing of what I must do! You will suffer! You will all suffer!

Torture? Silly girl, you just don't understand what I'm doing, do you?

Enough! I will no longer listen to the babbling of ignorant children.

You bore me, mageling!

Must I be interrupted at every turn?! Enough of this!

Your pathetic magics are useless. Let this end!

Silence, child. Allow the fool to make his judgement.

Life... is strength. This is not to be contested; it seems logical enough. You live; you affect your world. But is it what you want? You are... different inside. This woman lives and has strength of a sort. She lost her parents to plague, her husband to war, but she persevered. Her farm has prospered, her name is respected and her children are fed and safe. She lived as she thought she should. And now she is dead. Her land will be divided, her children will move on, and she will be forgotten. She lived a good life, but she had no power; she was a slave to death. I wonder if you are destined to be forgotten. Will your life fade in the shadow of greater beings?

You are but a gnat, compared to my power.

She resists. She clings to her old life as if it actually matters. She will learn.

The curse that was wrought against Bodhi and I has ceased, and yours has begun. You will wither, you will wane, and you will die.

Silence dog! You have no purpose but to die by my hand!

Do you cling to the past or can you see through the pain?

Your actions affect so many others than yourself. You will come to realise how little choice you have. You will do what you must, become what you must, or others will pay for your cowardice. You will accept the gifts offered to you.

Follow, and receive the gift you are owed by the blood in your veins. Follow, if only to protect the weak that fell because of you.

I cannot be caged! I cannot be controlled! Understand this as you die, ever pathetic, ever fools!

No, you'll warrant no villain's exposition from me.

I bid you farewell, Child of Bhaal. We shall not meet again.

You walk as a mortal, taking no advantage from your heritage, from your talents within. So many things of flesh are greater than you. Walk among them, these beasts that are less than you are. See their strength; see how easily you fall to their muscle and skill. Why do you stand for this? Why do you submit to the flesh when death is bred in your bones? Do you realise the power you might hold? When the world of flesh is beneath you, even creatures mysterious and magical will fall!

You... You live yet?! You have less than a fraction of your soul, and yet somehow you continue to oppose me?!

The power... The power of the Tree is gone from me. You have been successful in your little scheme, insect, but now this ends! I will take great pleasure in eradicating such a nuisance as you.

There is nothing else beyond my revenge. Revenge for what you did to me, what the Seldarine did to me!

I... I do not remember your love, Ellesime. I have tried. I have tried to recreate it, to spark it anew in my memory, but it is gone... a hollow, dead thing. For years, I clung to the memory of it. Then the memory of the memory. And then nothing. The Seldarine took that from me, too. I look upon you and feel nothing. I remember nothing but you turning your back on me, along with all the others. Once my thirst for power was everything. And now I hunger only for revenge. And I... WILL... HAVE IT!!

Korgan: ‘Tis been far too long since our last battle. Jan, ye runty windbag, tell me a story to ward off the boredom ... and if ye know what’s good for ye, it’ll be about dwarves!

Jan: Ah, finally someone who appreciates my tales! A tale about dwarves, eh? Let me see, of course - my cousin Kimble. Not a dwarf himself per se, but Kimble always was of peculiar tastes for a gnome. He fell in love with a dwarven lass. She was stout and stocky, with a gruff voice and a soft, supple beard...

Korgan: Ah, gnome, ye know how to paint a lovely picture ... such a beauty she must ha’ been!

Jan: Oh yes, she was a fine looking woman ... to Kimble’s eyes at least. She cast a spell on him far stronger than any sorcerer could have. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with my cousin - she had dwarven princes and clan lords after her calloused hands, and she couldn’t be bothered with a dirt poor turnip farming gnome. But Kimble’s heart wouldn’t be denied ... he left his own family to follow this bewitching character back to her clan home.

Jan: You wanted a story about dwarves, and this is the only one I’ve got. I just can’t make up a life, you know ... that would be an affront to the grand tradition of storytelling in my family! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Kimble. My cousin followed the lovely dwarven lass to her clan home in the Alimir Mountains, and started a turnip farm there. He had a rough go of it at first, let me tell you ... taxes, levies, zoning restrictions. It was almost like the dwarves didn’t want him and his farm there. But they never had turnips, so they didn’t really know what they were missing. One of those turnips started to sprout things, changed in a hurry. Turns out the dwarves of that particular clan LOVED turnips. Fried, baked, boiled, pureed, mashed - you couldn’t find a meal of the day they didn’t have turnips with. Turnips became so fashionable they began to wear clothes made from turnips. Never did a dwarf look so snazzy (or smell so appetizing) as when he dressed up in a turnip top hat and turnip tails, with turnip skin shoes to complete the ensemble. And with his turnip business booming, Kimble had more wealth than he knew what to do with. Just walking around his house was an effort, what with all the mountains of gold spilling out of every door of every room.

Korgan: All that gold got me attention, gnome. But the happy ending isn’t doin’ much for me.

Jan: Happy ending? I never said any such thing. Kimble was rich, true enough - but it turns out his dwarven love didn’t share her clans’ fondness for turnips. In fact, she was deathly allergic. She did her best to avoid the lethal vegetables, but as popular as Kimble’s crops were it was only a matter of time before she accidentally ate one. It killed her, of course. Heartbroken, Kimble tried to return to his own people. But the dwarves just weren’t going to let him and his turnips leave. They threw him in prison and demanded he reveal the secrets of turnip farming, but that isn’t something you can just teach. You either have the gift or you don’t, and dwarves don’t. In the end Kimble’s frail body succumbed to the dwarves’ torture and interrogation and he left to join his beloved in the afterlife. And that particular dwarven clan discovered that turnip farmers were almost as tasty as turnips themselves. Or so I’ve heard.

Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! A great tale, gnome. Ye done yerself proud!

Korgan: It's been a grand fight, eh mage? Can you better cap a life than with blood betwixt the toes and the flames of hell itself? Ha!

Edwin: Will someone get this bile-soaked freak away from me?!

Korgan: What? No stomach for the cleavings of me axe?

Edwin: I do not fault the need for frontline offense, but I fail to see why you need to sink a blade to your elbows.

What's my status? Since when do you care about me unless I'm impaled in something's guts? Oh well, fine, let me think for a minute... Well, as a matter of fact I would like to register a complaint. I want to kill a dragon. Right now. Go find one and kill it. That would be SO cool.

Murder! Death! Kill! Murder! Death! Kill! Bouah-ha-ha-ha!

Hands up, kiddies, who wants to die?

(sigh) ...come on...

(double sigh) Rassa-frackin' (grumbling) c'mon-c'mon-C'MON!!!

Come get some! Boo-yah!

YOINK!!! Got your nose!

You really need to clean me. I like to shine! Ha-ha-ha!

Kill it! Kill it quick before they're all gone!

Mwoo-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Swish! Hot butta!

I refuse to answer any more questions until I'm cleaned and polished thoroughly. Grab a rag already!

I'm the best at what I do, and what I do ain't pretty! *laughs*

I think you need to take better care of me. I've got more chips than a blind beaver! I look like a second rate pig-poker!

You talking to me?

I love the smell of daisies in the morning!

Listen beefy, I may be an intelligent sword, but I've had no formal edjumacation.

You know, my last owner always said I was 'sharp' and 'edgy'. He was such an ass.

And that's for grandma, who said I'd never amount to anything more than a butterknife!

Kill! Kill! Kill! Yeah cool!!

I don't know what you have expected, but as a sword I'm pretty one-dimensional in what I waaant!!!

Mazzy: Jan, I find you quite the enigma. This adventure has yielded us a crop of useful magical items and yet you turn your considerable powers to the never-ending quest to create the perfect turnip peeler. How can someone so clever be so shortsighted?

Jan: Well, Mazzy, you’re really asking two questions there. My shortsightedness was passed on to me by my dear departed father. I was born with the condition and I’ll thank you not to stare! As to your other question, it takes me back to my carefree days as a deckhand on a turnip merchant galleon. We sailed for distant Waterdeep, we did, braving foul seas, foul tempers and a desperate band of turnip pirates.

Mazzy: You are mentally incapable of answering a straight question, aren’t you gnome?

Jan: ’Twas on a cold winter’s night near the beginning of the Great Underwear Shortage that we set sail. I danced naked on the poop deck, which was the custom at the time. Well, my nose and other extremities were getting a bit frosty so I gathered up the tatters of my poor, abused, underwear and headed to the crow’s nest.

Jan: Boo would never do such a thing... uh, at least I hope he wouldn't. Actually, now that I think about it, that's a chance I'm not willing to take. Here you go, Minscy - Boo's yours again, safe and sound.

Minsc: Ah, Minsc and Boo together again! Jan, you are not worthy of having a miniaturized giant space hamster scampering loose in your pants.

Jan: Ah, I suppose there are precious few of us indeed who are truly worthy of that particular honor.

Minsc: Ooh, squirrels, Boo! I know I saw them! Quick, throw nuts!

Jaheira: Minsc, could you please maintain a little grace while in nature's presence? Sometimes I simply do not know how you came by your title of ranger.

Minsc: Do you wish me dour and sour like most others? No, I say not. The animals run and play without care, and I would too... if such a thing would not squish Boo flat.

Jaheira: But your duties are serious things, Minsc. Do you realise that?

Minsc: I am very serious! Boo would not let me shirk my duties! I would not want to shirk anything! No sir, no shirking!

Jaheira: Admirable, Minsc, but you use that word like you don't know what it means.

Minsc: Eh, well... no... but it sounds sharp and painful and I always reserve such things for freaks that might steal those squirrels' nuts!

Jaheira: Good job, Minsc. You keep it up.

Minsc: Then say it louder! We must inspire fear in evil! Quiet tales of hamsters are foolish, but a man and his hamster that tear evil limb from limb? That's scary!

Protagonist: Ahh, what the hell. Right-o, Minsc! Our deeds will ring in the evil ears we box and label do not open 'til mid-winter fest!

Minsc: Now you are speaking the language of Minsc! Next we must get you a hamster! Or perhaps an ice weasel, whatever your tastes.

Minsc: Yes! Lead evil by example, and one day we need no longer put the boots to those that stray off the path of goodness into the muck and bile of villainy and track great bloody footprints across our lily white tiles! Boo will have clean wood shavings you evil bastards!

Protagonist: Oooooh kaaaay.

Minsc: Ooh! To take swords against monsters of great evil! Already I feel Boo wriggling in excited anticipation!

Jan: Are you sure its your rodent, Minsc? I once felt excitement before impending doom fell upon me, and it turned out later to be a mild case of indigestion. You should get that checked, you know... I was laid out for weeks in bed, eating nothing but ice cream and porridge, and we wouldn't want you turning into a chubby berserker, now would we?

Minsc: Of course it is Boo. Boo is always happy when opportunities for heroism come! We shall crush these ogres, and rangers and hamsters everywhere shall rejoice!

Minsc: I do not get through many battles without injury. Why is Minsc always on the front line taking damage?

Protagonist: Are you a freakishly large juggernaut that charges at the drop of a hat? Just a guess on my part.

Minsc: Perhaps I am a touch quick to combat but I temper my temper with common sense about who I should attack. What? I do too! Why does Boo snicker?

[When given a fragment of the Protagonist's soul] I... live! Flesh and blood and bone! I am alive! Ha-ha! I swore I would scratch and crawl my way back into the world of the living... and I have done it!

A shame the manner of this man's death prevents us from restoring him to life - my interrogations could have brought us much information!

Gorion: [a disguised Master Wraith] You think this animal, Sarevok, is responsible for my death? I expect no better from him. He is a slave to ambition, and yet you resurrect him and hail him as comrade.

Sarevok: Beware old man. You were in my way once. Do not tempt me a second time.

When the Protagonist is asking for advise from the party about the decision to achieve godhood or reject it.

Do not waver. Were I in your shoes, I would lunge at this opportunity... it is no less than what I died attempting. Take it...grab hold of what you deserve!

If Godhood is chosen

Yes! You have achieved what I could not, in life! With luck you will tear a streak of blood across the skies that the gods will not soon forget! How I wish I could join you!

If Godhood is rejected

Hmph. You turn down the very power I died seeking. And now what! Prance amongst the flowers, happy to be mortal? Bah...you'll pardon me if we part ways as soon as this is done.

I advise caution in this place. We are fortunate not to be taken hostage as foreigners and sold as slaves. If they mean for us to prove our place, we must serve the Matrons utterly.

Any misstep, no matter how slight, will draw the attention of the Spider Queen's watchers. And no doubt they are already curious of us... we do not need their scrutiny, yes?

Remember: absolute obedience to those of greater rank, especially the Handmaidens of Lolth and the Matron Mothers. To those of equal or lesser rank: no mercy.

Otherwise, take advantage of whatever favor is thrown your way. For ones such as us, it is the only way to achieve what you are not born to. No mercy. It is our way.

[in Hell] This is... must unusual. Death overwhelmed me in combat, and the darkness came over my senses. I felt a pulling, and followed it... and here we are. What place is this, I wonder?

[upon final battle in Hell] The darkness has already taken you, foolish one, yet you refuse to close your eyes! Let us help you onwards to your final rest! L'il alurl! For Shar!!

[Commenting on a dead monk] See the markings on this rivvil, <Protagonist>? I have seen the Handmaidens inflict similar defilements on their victims. His death is most permanent - and his last moments most unpleasant.

When the Protagonist is asking for advise from the party about the decision to achieve godhood or reject it.

Viconia: How glorious to finally have the opportunity to grasp your birthright. To take up the reins of power as they are meant to be!

Viconia: Fail to do so and the only point to your having come this far will be to have fought off all those who sought to stop you. There is only one patch...take it and perhaps I will even be the first of your clerics on day! Think of it!

Viconia: So...what draws you to this part of Faerun? Amn? Athkatla? I seem to recall you mentioning something about a mission or some bother.

Protagonist: I need to know who captured me, for what purpose and what they have in mind for Imoen.

Viconia: How are you going to hunt down these culprits who ambushed you? Vermin rarely leave scent or footstep.

Protagonist: The Cowled Wizards arrested the man responsible for my imprisonment and will know where to find him.

Viconia: The cowled ones are not to be taken lightly. It's whispered how their power is boundless, and their allegiances are only with the powerful.

Viconia: It's a strange time along this Sword Coast. The brink of war was averted, but the countryside remains hazardous to the citizenry.

Protagonist: War? What are you talking about, Viconia?

Viconia: The war your half-brother nearly started. What do you think I was speaking of?

Protagonist: Why bring it up? I killed Sarevok. His plans for war died with him.

Viconia: Perhaps 'his' war died. That does not mean other conflicts won't arise. Perhaps I ramble on; if you wish I'll stop bothering you.

Protagonist: No, no. Tell me, what have you been up to since all the trouble with Sarevok happened?

Viconia: I have been a lost soul. When you race is used as a bogeyman it is an uphill battle to even find a a bag of dirt on a stable floor for the night.

Viconia: Children throwing apples, merchants loosing the hounds, hunters with their arrows...and for what? Tales around a dinner table, a few guffaws at a watering hole?

Viconia: It has been trying past endurance, <Name>. (Sigh)

Protagonist: Well, how have you survived since we parted ways.

Viconia: I made the attempt to purchase land on the outskirts of Beregost. I dropped your good name whenever necessary to remain on steady footing locally.

Viconia: I remained hooded at all times, and it was only a matter of time and materials before I would own my own homestead, away from prying eyes.

Viconia: I was not looking to be a farmer, of course. I just...wanted a place of my own. Where I could find peace.

Viconia: My neighbor was Roran Midfallow, a stout, sunburned farmer. We spoke often, and I allowed the male to bring me supplies that I needed but could not acquire.

Protagonist: Go on, Viconia. Please.

Viconia: Over time, we formed an awkward friendship. He did not ask why I wore my hood, and I slowly began trust him. He wondered, thought...that was obvious.

Viconia: The time to reveal myself as Drow came one late afternoon. A warm day; the sun was dappling along the south quarter of his farmland, and I pulled down my hood.

Viconia: Then he smiled a warm inviting smile. He mentioned that his oldest son, Jiscanan, was busy making a feast to burst the first button, and that I was invited.

Viconia: We walked to his farmhouse, where his other son, a surly oaf named Funnard, was sickling quachgrass in the front yard.

Viconia: When I reached his farmhouse, I learned his true intentions. Somebody hit me in the back of my skull, and the ground rushed up to meet me.

Viconia: I had grown weak in my trust. They chortled as I lost consciousness, saying how easy it had been and congratulating each other on a fine...a fine catch.

Protagonist: What happened next, Viconia?

Viconia: I woke up to searing pain, while unconscious, they had abused and tortured me...then tried to bury their sins.

Viconia: I could see nothing except for the lid of a coffin. They had buried me alive...a mistake not to kill me outright.

Viconia: The fools knew the name 'Drow', but were ignorant of my true spirit. Pain is the handmaiden of my people; their tortures were amateurish in comparison.

Viconia: I splint the coffin lid and let the earth in. I clawed to the surface, and pain did not slow me...I would not let weakness defer me from vengeance.

Protagonist: What did you do then?

Viconia: I took my revenge, <Name>. I watched their house, listening to their celebrate their victory in midst of drunkenness. I watched and I waited.

Viconia: Jiscanan, the younger son, left to use the outhouse. I jammed a stake in the door, trapping him inside. Then I set the building afflame. Roran came running, yelling to Funnard. As he stood helpless before the flames I wrapped a garrote around his neck...

Viconia: I whispered to him of his mistakes, and mine; he had underrestimated a Drow, and I had trusted foolishly. I tightened the wire until he breathed no more.

Viconia: By this time the elder son, Funnard, returned with a bucket from the well to find his father's corpse and his brother a smoldering ember.

Viconia: He dropped to his knees in shock, which afforded me a height advantage as I caved his head with a miner's mallet.

Protagonist: I am...glad you had your revenge.

Viconia: I am drow. And I let myself be lulled, foolishly. The vengeance was bitter, <Name>, because my own stupidity had made it necssary.

Viconia: Korgan, I'm interested in whether your clan has ever had interaction with House DeVir? It seems to me, if memory serves, that our sphere of influence was quite close to your Bloodaxe clan's stronghold near Talthalra Wern'nt Szithla Har'oloth.

Korgan: Nay speak that vile tongue to me, blackskin. If it moves I've killed it, but if it be drow, I've tortured it fer days, first. As fer that house of yers, I burned it and relieved meself on the embers and the dead. And the necklace of darkelf ears fetched me a king's ransom in Waterdeep.

Viconia: Minsc, that... tattoo on your face. Does it have tribal significance or did some nursery's fingerpainting class assault you with the blue pastels?

Minsc: I do not like the tone of your voice, Dark Elf. The face I have is the face the ladies love! Boo loves Minsc's face, too! Don't you, Boo?

Viconia: Jan. While I would be tempted to let the situation play itself out, perhaps it is best if I warn you now.

Jan: Yeeessss, my dusky little margarita? What warning would that be?

Viconia: You have a venomous spider on your neck. A lovely creature, known to cause an agonizing, blood-curdling death within moments of injecting its nerve poison.

Jan: You know, this reminds me of the time Uncle Scratchy laid me flat with the handle of a horseman's flail. 'Look behind you!', he says. 'Why? What's behind me?', I say. 'A Tiberian Dung Beetle!', he cries, looking frantic. So of course I scream in terror and look behind me... and lost a bag of the most scrumptuous turnips ever to come out of Scornubel. Ma Jansen was furious and the lump was more painful than six weeks with the Calimshite Itch.

Viconia: Oh, look. There it goes down the back of your shirt.

Jan: And then there was that time I took a drow at his word. "Bifflechips,' says I, 'you had better be telling the truth.' And, of course, he swore up and down that he was. Needless to say, not four weeks later I was stewing in the lower intestines of a giant cave wyrm without even so much as a torch or a sense of irony. I would have been a goner if gnomes weren't well known for causing severe bouts of intestinal gas.

Viconia: I wouldn't squirm about so much, you foolish jaluk. You're likely to anger it, and I have no spells that can counteract its particular poison.

Jan: Now, if I had a copper for every time --- eh, wait a second. I feel something... who's behind me? What *is* that back there?

Viconia: Did I not try to tell you? No doubt it is sinking its fangs into your gamey flesh as we speak.

Jan: What? But I -- ouch! AHHHH! AHHHH, NOOOO! I'M TOO YOUNG A GNOME TO DIE!! AHHHHH!! HELP ME, SOMEONE! AN ANTIDOTE, AN ANTIDOTE!! PAIN GIVES ME GAS! AHHHH!! I DON"T WANT TO -- eh? Wait a minute, that's a fly. A dead fly. You mean I ripped off my own shirt for nothing?

Viconia: Ha ha! Sometimes life has its little rewards. Even for the drow.

Jan: You're a cruel, cruel woman, Viconia. Garl help me, but I am so turned on right now.

Viconia: Alright, now I'm leaving.

Viconia: Valygar, do you realize you have twigs in your hair? Dirt under your fingernails and mud on your boots? You’re a filthy mess. Ha! How can I be discreet? Take a bath.

Valygar: And your point, Viconia? We’re all filthy. We’re all unwashed and tired and hungry. Shut up and tell someone who cares.

Viconia: Sarevok, have you had opportunity to consider my earlier offer? Untold pleasures await you if you would but submit to me.

Sarevok: I have considered it, Viconia. And I must reject you and your... tempations.

Viconia: A pity your manhood is so lacking. I am a cruel mistress, but my slaves always found their subjugation to be most satisfying to their own physical desires as well.

Sarevok: When Bhall held sway over my soul, I reveled in the bloody carnage I wrought. But my will was not my own. As captivating as your dominance might be, Viconia, I will not surrender my being to the whims of another again... be they God or drow.

Viconia: Then you are of no further interest to me, rivel... though I suspect your dreams will be filled with dark imaginings of the hedonistic pleasures you have denied yourself. But even your dreams will be but a pale shadow of my true decadence.

Raised as a child in the cloistered confines of Candlekeep, <Protagonist> emerged from these humble beginnings to become one of the most powerful mortals to ever set foot upon the face of Toril.

Saving the city of Baldur's Gate, defeating the mad mage Jon Irenicus, preserving the Tree of Life... such heroic accomplishments are mere footnotes in the epic tale of <Protagonist>, greatest of the Children of Bhall!

If you care to listen, I can give you a small preview of what I'm going to say about those people who have the glory of adventuring with you.

Those who knew Aerie as the frightened little girl in the circus would be amazed at her transformation. Few beings in the history of the Realms have become as powerful in both priestly and wizardly magics as this innocent elf.

Aerie: Oh, I don't think I deserve all of that... there are *so* many opponents we face who seem to have more power than us, no matter how much we all grow. But it *does* sound nice.

Combining the might of a fierce warrior with the compassion of a true priest of Helm, Anomen Delryn's fame and accomplishments have brought honor and glory to his family name.

Anomen: Hmph... a commendable recitation, although I've no need for such flattery. You did spell my name correctly, did you not?

Cernd is truly the most powerful druid still to walk the material plane. Few defenders of the balance have seen such stalwart guardians of the natural order.

Cernd: The most powerful? Perhaps. In the normal order of things, were I not joined in <Protagonist>'s quest, I suppose I would have become a Hierophant long ago. But it was not meant to be.

Edwin Odesseiron, arcane master of the darkest necromancy... the Thayvian wizard's very name strikes fear into the hearts of most mortals.

Edwin: What? That is it? No mention of how I could squash the pathetic Elminster with a wave of my little finger? Bah! Writers! (Although striking fear with my name is good, yes, yes, very good...)

There are few who can match the arts of Haer'Dalis, whether he be twirling blades in combat, unleashed powerful magic on his foes, or invoking the spirit of a legendary hero on stage.

Haer'Dalis: You are too kind, dear poet. Would that I had the time, it would suit my fancy to join you in your quest to record <Protagonist>'s tale. Ahhh, what wonders it has already encompassed! Perhaps I will yet have the chance to relate them to you, one day, yes?

From an anonymous childhood in the monastery at Candlekeep Imoen stepped forth, a young woman with the blood of an immortal in her veins, and the power of an archmage at her command.

Imoen: Ooo, an archmage! I like the sound of that! But you forgot beautiful. All of the sorceresses in Winthrop's books were beautiful and terrible. Watch, see? See how I flip my hair and glare at you... don't I look evil?

Out of all the great warriors to come from the ranks of the dwarves, Korgan is one whose name and terrible deeds are already achieving legendary status. Pray that your path does not cross the gruff battlerager's, for never has a more efficient killer walked the planes.

Korgan: Damn right.

Jaheira combines the talents of her warrior training and her druid beliefs, making her one of the most powerful guardians of the balance to ever walk the world.

Jaheira: Well, at least the balance was mentioned. So long as your tale does not turn into some tawdry bundle of lies existing solely to titillate the common reader, perhaps your retation of <Protagonist>'s tale will have some merit, Volo.

Volo: Tawdry? My dear miss Jaheira... I have never once been the slightest bit tawdry with my lies, I assure you.

Jaheira: Hmph. Not even an attempt to feign honesty, is it? No wonder Elminster speaks so highly of you. I shall have to see this work of your once it is done... I so wonder if <Protagonist> will even be recoqnizable.

Volo: Believe me, my dear... in the case of <Protagonist>, here, exaggeration is not exactly a requirement for an exciting tale. It will be all I can do to convince my readers that I tell the truth, I would wager.

Combining the stealth and guile of a master thief with the power of a great illusionist, Jan Jansen is not one to lightly dismiss. In an already-infamous gnomish family, word of Jan's exploits, have spread across the breadth of Faerun and will likely grow into the greatest Jansen legends of the future. [strangely no response from Jan]

Nalia has grown from the roguish young daugther of the de'Arnise Duke, barely trained in the magical arts, to one of the most fearsome mages to grace the land. Lady Nalia challenges the likes of Elminster and Alustriel for both power and a desire to do good.

Nalia: Oh, good grief. You *must* be kidding me.

Err... Sarevok? You mean *the* Sarevok? He's with you?

Protagonist: Sure he is. He's right there.

Volo: Amazing! I had heard that a warrior of masterful skill was sighted traveling with you, <Protagonist>, but even I could not guess of such a convolution! Imagine! The very man who once tried to kill you now fights by your side!

Volo: I shall have to write that down now, so I don't forget what a fantastic tale this will make!

Sarevok: It was a good enough tale when I was alive the first time, sycophantic fool.

The fierce and deadly servant of Shar has achieved the sort of immortal fame enjoyed by only one other drow in Faerun, and while Drizzt Do'Urden is a hero of the first magnitude, Viconia's name will forever be uttered with hushed respect... none of Shar's faithful has ever been more feared.

Viconia: Hmm, A worth description, perhaps, though the other drow you mention is nothing compared to me and deserves no mention when I am the topic of discussion. But it is *your* manuscript, yes?

Yoshimo: [after Edwin is transformed into a woman by the Nether Scroll] Tell me, Edwina, would you like me to let out the seams on your robe? I'm quite handy with a needle. You do, after all, have more...bulk..in the upper chest area.

Your Bhaal Soul (posing as Imoen): You are to be given a gift. It is a valuable prize, one you had better appreciate. You worry for your comrades, perhaps? Leave them, abandon them and become what you must. There is great power in your heritage. Use it, and you will become closer to what you are, what you could be...

[Protagonist turns into the Slayer]

Your Bhaal soul (posing as Imoen): Feel what is in the void. Use the tools that you are given. Become part of something greater. I am in you, and I know what is best. Each time you use it, each time you accept it, you move a little closer to the evil within. Perhaps you lose yourself in the end, but you will go to greater reward than you can know. After all, what does an eternity of nothingness matter, when you can destroy all that would oppose your development as easy as one...

[Protagonist kills Sarevok]

Your Bhaal soul (posing as Imoen): ...two...

[Protagonist kills Bodhi]

Your Bhaal soul (posing as Imoen): ...three...

[Protagonist kills Irenicus]

Your Bhaal soul (posing as Imoen): ...four...

[Imoen dies - the screen fades to black a moment, then comes back]

Your Bhaal soul (posing as Imoen): ...FIVE!

[Protagonist dies]

Aphril: I see through the walls, for there are no walls when you are somewhere else! I walk through them all, and they walk through me!

Edwin: It is a weakness on her part. A superior mind could handle such a gift.

Viconia: Ha! A pity we do not have one here!

Edwin: (Sigh. It's aggravation like this that will eventually cause me to fireball the entire party as they sleep. Yes indeed, everyone peaceful and quiet and then FOOM!)

Bondari: Die, cursed eyeball! Uh... ? ... Do I, uh, know you?

Protagonist: I have freed you from your stone prison, young adventurer.

Bondari: Shutup, Tim! Greetings, my, uh... Lord. I am Bondari Quickhand, a thief. These are my companions Nanoc the Barbarian and Tim Goldenhand. He's an elf. And a mage.

Bondari: Uh... I guess I should thank you for saving us. Is there some way we brave adventurers can repay your kindness? Something we can do for you to fulfill our debt of gratitude. Anything? Anything at all?

Protagonist: A terrible evil has swept across the land and the lives of millions hang in the balance. You have been chosen, Bondari, and you must not fail in your quest!

Bondari: A Quest! Wow! This is great! What do we have to do?

Protagonist: A fiendish beholder and his kobold cohorts have infested a cave to the east of here. An evil dragon threatens the land! I must have the beholder's eyestalk to slay the dragon and save the country from certain doom!

Bondari: By Mask's mask! We can't let this happen!

Protagonist: Go, noble adventurer, and retrieve the eyestalk. The fate of Tethyr lies in your hands!

Bondari: What kind of reward do we get?

Protagonist: I shall give you... 100 gold!

Bondari: 100 gold! We're rich! You have a deal, sir. We shall fetch this eyestalk and save the world. C'mon guys!

Tim Goldenhand: Wait! I have to rest and memorize magic missile!

Nanoc the Barbarian: Worry not, elf. Nanoc will protect you!

Several days later...

Bondari: (I'm telling you we can take Protagonist. Nanoc, you are unfettered by the weaknesses of the civilized world! Tim, you can cast magic missile! I will backstab. I bet s/he has all kinds of great treasure!)

Nanoc the Barbarian: (But Tim is terrible. Remember the kobold king? He cast one spell then hid behind a rock while we had to slay everyone!)

Tim Goldenhand: (Hey! I have the healing potions! I heal you!)

Nanoc the Barbarian: (I can shrug off a blow that would fell a normal man! Unfettered by your civilized ways, I...)

Bondari: (Enough! Ready...) ATTACK!!!

[Bondari and company attack Protagonist, who transforms into the slayer and kills them]

Bondari reloads...

Bondari: Uh, here's your eyestalk sir. We found something else, too. I hope you like it.

Protagonist: Well done, Bondari. Here is your reward.

Bondari: Thanks. It was a good quest. I found a dagger and Tim here got a scroll of identify. In a couple of days he'll be able to tell me about my dagger.

Tim Goldenhand: Hi.

Bondari: Thanks again, Protagonist! Bye! Good luck with the dragon!

Nanoc the Barbarian: I bid you a "Farewell" suitably unfettered by civilization.

Desharik: What is the meaning of this intrusion? Who are you?

Protagonist: <Protagonist> is my name. I was referred by Captain Golin.

Desharik: Golin? Why would he send you to me? What is it you think you want here?

Protagonist: I seek entry to the asylum. Can you help with this?

Desharik: Spellhold? Why would you want to go there? Hardly a sociable place for decent folk.

Protagonist: I… I need to be admitted. I need… I need help. I need to be confined.

Desharik: You wish me to have you thrown into the asylum? That is certainly an odd request, through not in itself an indication of madness. What are you trying to accomplish? I can indeed have people committed to Spellhold, but why would you request it?

Minsc: Pirate Lord? Such a name does not conjure images of righteous behavior. Stand still a moment and let Boo have a look at you.

Desharik: Er, why is your friend pointing a hamster at me?

Minsc: Boo will soon have you figured out. You certainly seem friendlier that I would think a Pirate Lord would be. And where is your peg?

Desharik: My--- what?

Minsc: Your peg, A proper pirate has a peg, whether a leg, arm or… uh… some other expendable extremity. And a parrot.

Desharik: A parrot?

Minsc: Certainly! As I have my Boo, so too must you have your parrot. Boo likes parrots. They could wrassel.

Desharik: I’ve seen enough. Congratulations, you are on your way to Spellhold. You are clearly a danger to the general community. By the gods. I think I’m stupider for talking to you. Stupider? More Stupid? Get them out of my sight, all of them! They may all have this disease of the mind.

Drow Captain: Your slaughter-filled progress has greatly alarmed my Mistress. If I defeat you my reward will be truly worthwhile.

Spectator: O, Captain, my Captain!

Drow Captain: Eh? Why do you address me as such, beholder? You have a most peculiar attitude... I shall have to report it to the mistress soon.

Spectator: Oh, never mind that. I always wanted to say that, and there you go getting all upset. I just had a comment, here, before this Bhaalspawn squashes you into so much mush.

Drow Captain: Hmph. That may not necessarily happen.

Spectator: Uh...yes. Anyhow, on the off chance that you *do* manage to kill the Bhaalspawn, won't Sendai just go to the Matron Mothers and take all the credit for her greedy little self?

Drow Captain: You...speak the truth, my mono-ocular friend. I would rather claim the credit for such a deed myself. Have you a suggestion?

Spectator: I'm just thinking it would be *so* much better if you fought (Protagonist) in single combat. Then you could claim to have killed him all by yourself. Even the matrons couldn't refute that. Parades, gold, a new torture rack, it'd all be yours.

Protagonist: So what are you going to do now?

Spectator: Oh, you know. Find the nearest hive. Check out the ladies. The usual. You?

Protagonist: Fighting for my life. The usual.

Elven Madman: You want Yakman to sleep? Yakman never sleep!

Protagonist: You never sleep? You must sleep. If you didn't sleep, it would drive you... oh.

Nevin: It's Uncle Lester! He's risen from his grave! He scared everyone away who was at the funeral and now he's come after me! I put up with that cheap bastard all my life! You know what he left me in his will? A sweater! Now, even in death, the damnable fiend still torments me!!

Uncle Lester: Cheap sweater? I'll have you know that that belonged to your grandfather, you ungrateful git!

Nevin: Aaaaahhhh!! IT'S HIM!!

Uncle Lester: Call me a fiend, will you? I've never seen such a cheap funeral in my life! You sold my clothes and kept the casket closed! You picked the flowers this morning from near the swamp! And you gave a drunken priest of Talos a few coppers to slur some lines of profanity to pass for a eulogy! The outrage! The sheer outrage!!

Prisoner: ...uhhhh...UHHH...n-n-n-noOOO, PLEASE!!..

Booter: Now, what's all th' bloody noise about? It's not like I'm goin' to remove the red-hot poker simply 'cause you start pleadin' for mercy, now is it?

Prisoner: NO! NO, PLEASE! I'm BEGGING YOU! DON'T DO THIS!

Booter: Now, now, ye should have thought about that before you went and murdered your guild partners and their families. Now careful, your moving might cause real damage, here, an' then where would I be?

Prisoner: (gasp!) N-noooOOOO...Gggh...ngh...uuuhhhHHHAAAIIIIIEE!!

Booter: Tsk. I don't think you really appreciate the level of craftsmanship you're receiving, here. We've been at this for what? Four days? And you've only passed out twice. Do you know how hard that is? Ahhhh...the lack of appreciation, sometimes. Hmmmmn... Douglas, find me th' pliers. Time our guest, here, found some appreciation for the craft.

I know you said that you wouldn't tolerate excuses, but we have a real good one.

Forsooth, methinks you are no ordinary talking chicken!

Is it just me, or is the world filled with wackos? Okay, Mr. Psycho gnome, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but we're really not interested in your rock garden.

Sorry, Aldeth, but we're siding with the druids. They have this great Aloe-Vera balm they are giving away samples of, and my armor has been chafing a bit, ya know?

No, we're not mercenaries. We just carry weapons and kill things for the joy of the experience.

(to Portalbendarwinden): Ok, I've just about had my FILL of riddle asking, quest assigning, insult throwing, pun hurling, hostage taking, iron mongering, smart arsed fools, freaks, and felons that continually test my will, mettle, strength, intelligence, and most of all, patience! If you've got a straight answer ANYWHERE in that bent little head of yours, I want to hear it pretty damn quick or I'm going to take a large blunt object roughly the size of Elminster AND his hat, and stuff it lengthwise into a crevice of your being so seldom seen that even the denizens of the nine hells themselves wouldn't touch it with a twenty-foot rusty halberd! Have I MADE myself CLEAR?!

For your information, a number of important sociological and psychological theorists have posited that stores exist in an intermediate space, neither private nor public in nature but combining elements of both. Displays in store windows, for instance, can best be viewed as mental constructs projected onto the public consciousness as a means of engendering mass conformity derived solely from the supposedly private domain of consumer choice..........

Why are you so fat?

Utterly amazing! You spoke so long, but you didn't say anything.

You know what I always say? "Always kill the mouthy one", that's what I always say.

Thank you for the compliment. Shall we kill you now or would you rather beg for a time?

(Facetiously) I am Dinkamus Littlelog and I come in search of the holy groundhog.

Lonk the Sane: My job? Taking care of crazies like you. Making sure you don't go and hurt yourselves with your deviant powers. And cookies, I make cookies.

Lonk the Sane: [when the main character proposes a bribe] Worth to me? How much is a life going for these days? That new director Irenicus would have me quartered with his experiments. He's done it before.

Saemon Havarian: Great Lord Desharik, you must believe that I am completely serious when I say: <PROTAGONIST>, GET HIM!!

Spectator: What to do now? Hmmn... kill the imps. Yeah. Those bastards deserve to die.

Tiax: Tiax rules all! You are naught but grease for the wheels of his rule! Silence the squeaking of those that protest! He rules all!

Tiax: None stand where Tiax stands, lest he walk atop them.

Tiax: You will wear what face Tiax orders! Today he rules all!

Saladrex: My story is truly a grand tale! Of course, any story about me is going to be grand simply by virtue of the main character.